


joining up the pieces

by dustyspines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyspines/pseuds/dustyspines
Summary: Albus hates weddings at the best of times. They're long, they're busy, and they're full of people who know his name and want to touch his face and tell him how grown up he is now. So, throwing in the fact it's the wedding of Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley has Albus convinced he won't make it to the end of the day alive. At least Scorpius is his platonic plus-one, Albus thinks. Thatsurelycan't go downhill.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 34
Kudos: 298
Collections: Scorbus Song Fics





	joining up the pieces

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to the lovely @sunshinescorpius for organising this collection. writing this was so fun, especially since i was given a song i'd never heard of before. i was given 'the one' by kodaline, and it is a truly beautiful song, and i think it fits scorpius and albus so perfectly.

_You make my heart feel like it's summer,_

_When the rain is pouring down._

_You make my whole world feel so right when it’s wrong,_

_That’s how I know you are the one._

⚡

Albus stares at his glass of orange juice with such ferocity he is surprised it doesn’t shatter right in front of him. Truly; his eyes are shaded with agitation and he is certain that weaving between the lines of green and brown and amber that swim around his irises are threads of anguish. There is incessant noise around him – the clinking of cutlery against ostentatiously fancy china, the drumming of booming voices, the chirping of an over-enthusiastic bird that calls through the open French doors – and it takes all the willpower he has to not whip out his wand and conjure silence himself.

Instead of exposing Magic to Muggles (and risking a stern telling off from his Aunt) purely because he is having a downright rotten early, _early_ morning, Albus makes a list of his grievances in his mind.

One. It is before six in the morning and he has been woken up to come and eat breakfast in preparation for _‘the long day ahead’_.

Two. Every single man from the Weasley-Potter-Granger-Lupin (and every other surname his cruelly complicated family boasts) are pacing around said breakfast tables and talking loudly and being general nuisances.

Three. He misses Scorpius, who isn’t arriving until noon.

Four. It’s raining. Which, given the circumstances of there being a _wedding_ later today, is rather inconvenient.

(And, anyway, Albus hates weddings at the best of times.)

“It’ll be fine!” Grandpa Arthur declares, frail index finger jabbing at the weather column in a Muggle newspaper he picked up from the entrance. “Look here… by eleven the rain is supposed to stop and…” He licks the tip of his finger and turns the page.

“A summer storm is supposed to pick up, instead,” Teddy reads off the end of the sentence. Collectively, as if they are a wave reaching its peak before crashing onto a sandy shore below, the entire room (except Albus) release an aggressive sigh. “Can someone go check on Vic? She’ll be losing her mind over this.”

“I’ll go,” James offers, chair screeching on the fine marble floor as he stands up. He’s half-dressed, for some odd reason, pearly-white shirt tucked into his pinstripe trousers. The legs taper towards the bottom, shortened to expose his ankle bone. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes assume I’ve been killed by an equally-panicked bridal party.”

Albus’ soul shivers with envy as James traipses out the dining room and turns towards the elevator. He sinks lower into his chair, foot tapping a mismatched beat on the floor, his eyes once more glaring at the orange juice before him.

“See,” his dad speaks. Harry cleans his glasses with the arm of his shirt, squinting through his blurred vision to spot if all the smudges have vanished. “This is why we have weddings at _home_. Shell Cottage. The Burrow. Places where, if it rains, we can do something about it.”

“Like _what_?” Teddy’s voice is laced with aggravation. Albus almost doesn’t recognise it; Teddy is normally alight with humour, his voice always raising an octave or two at the end of his sentences as a joke slips from between his lips and drags giggles from his audience. But here, stood underneath a grand chandelier with the top few buttons of his shirt undone and his hair unintentionally turning red at the tips, his voice is sharp at the edges.

“ _Like_ ,” Harry matches the aggression. Albus lets out a breath. He recognises that tone all too well. “Shield charms. Charming umbrellas and marquees and plastic tarps. Conjuring little fires to dry everyone off.”

Teddy stares at Harry. And Harry stares back. Albus thinks his glass of orange juice is going to pop from the sheer tension in the room alone.

“Whatever,” Teddy surrenders first. He rakes his hand through his hair, the red disappearing and morphing back to the familiar shade of turquoise he has become famous for over the span of his life. “We didn’t want to do that. We wanted… _this_. Something original.”

“We know,” Arthur steps in. He places a hand on Teddy’s cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “It will be okay. This place has many conservatories. Gazebos. We can take photos there! The guests can wait in the foyer while the room is redecorated from the wedding space to the reception space.”

Teddy sighs. He slumps in the seat opposite Albus, picking up a cold piece of toast. He half-heartedly slathers butter and jam over it and brushes the crumbs off his trousers as he eats. Everyone watches him with meticulous interest, as if terrified he will explode at any given moment.

This side to Teddy often confuses people who have never met him and form their opinions around preconceived ideas of what he _will_ be like. A jokester. A prankster. Someone who jumps from cloud to cloud and washes the world with jokes and smooth sarcasm and bewitches anyone he walks past. _The_ Teddy who walked the Hogwarts halls with justified arrogance and confidence. A blend of Tonks and Lupin – sprinklings of his mother’s assertiveness and fiery spirit and a drop of his father’s Marauders blood.

Teddy Lupin: the one to simmer any situation with a toss of his head and a snap of his fingers.

Not Teddy Lupin: reserved and often intimidating.

 _This_ Teddy, Albus learned one horrific summer when Victoire ended up in St. Mungos after falling from a broomstick, only comes out when he is worried about the person he loves. Albus knows Teddy normally wouldn’t care about rain; in fact, on any normal day, he would be the first one out there to dance under the heavy clouds and tilt his head back to drink the tears from God. But this is his wedding. _Vic’s_ wedding. Vic who has spent months carefully embroidering and sewing her own dress and scribing names on placards and booking a Muggle venue for the beautiful gardens where she can be photographed by a Muggle with her arms around her husband and a ring wound round her finger.

Teddy is on edge because the rain will make Victoire sad. And Albus feels a little queasy, in a good way, thinking about it.

“I’m sure it will give up, Ted,” Albus speaks for the first time that morning. All eyes flick to him at once. “Those Muggle weather people are always wrong. It’s hours until the service, anyway. Plenty of time for it to stop.”

Teddy smiles. “Thanks, Al,” he says. Teddy wipes a hand over his face and scrubs his eyes. “You’re right. It’s just rain.”

 _Just rain_ , Albus repeats. If only everything could be that simple.

⚡

The ceremony space is filled with lines of dark brown rattan chairs, decorated with upholstered cushions and spirals of fairy lights that wind around the arms and down the legs. Lanterns hang above them, more string lights woven and tied to form the vague outlines of constellations on the ceiling. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting endlessly to make the room seem infinitely large.

The aisle is bound by little candles, unlit for now, scented like the ocean. The floor is a dark wood, the walls are bisected by columns and painted navy. The altar is handmade by Molly and Fleur, the arch dotted with flowers picked from their gardens and spirals of golden ribbon wound around each strand of wicker. Behind the altar, opening up the whole room to the outside world and intended to allow a waterfall of light to cascade in, is a huge arched window. No blinds. No curtains.

Albus presses his fingertips to the glass and traces the paths of raindrops. He joins the dots as if he is a child filling in a puzzle book.

Just rain, he thinks.

⚡

By eight everyone has had breakfast, apparently. The bridal party are shut up in the suite being painted with streaks of peach on their lips and golden over their eyelids. The groom’s party loiter in the conservatory jutting out the back-end of the building, adjacent to the bar and looking out at the acres of land that Oak Moor Hall and Spa owns.

Albus doesn’t know where Victoire had found out about this place. _Irrelevant details, Al_ , is what she’d said after he asked. For weeks everyone tried to convince her to host it at one of their houses. Or at St. Jerome’s. Anywhere but here, basically. But Victoire is a stubborn spirit, and Teddy would lay down his life if it meant she smiled. So, here they are.

There is a stream that cuts through the property, crossed only by a sweet wooden bridge covered in padlocks couples hang after they tie the knot. Squirrels dart between the willow trees and scale the trunks of oaks to dance among the branches and slither over the leaves. Ducks topple down the slopes and glide away out of view, the rain on their beaks and the stream water on their backs.

The sky is heavy with moisture, thick with rolling grey clouds that show no sign of dispersing. The shower is endless, but the air is still ever so slightly warm. As Albus stands in the doorway, centimetres away from the downpour, his skin is warm. His fingers itch to curl into the rain and bask in the humidity.

“Vic is doing better,” James says, arriving back from his millionth trip to the bridal suite so far. His cheeks are flush from the speed he ran up and down the stairs – apparently he’s trying to beat himself in the race of _who can travel the stairs the fastest_ – and everytime he returns his sleeves are pushed further up his arms. Any further, Albus thinks, and he’ll be revealing the secret tattoo he got last year to an audience full of people who don’t know about it. “I think the girls are distracting her with bucks fizz and strawberries so she doesn’t have chance to look out the window.”

“Unbelievable,” Ron murmurs. “It’s been boiling this entire holiday but now, _today_ , it decides to tip down.”

“It’s typical England, honestly.” Harry says.

⚡

“Oh, my baby,” Ginny clasps her hands over her mouth as she greets Albus at the door to the bridal suite. His arms are full of punnets of strawberries and bottles of lemonade, and he would rather not be ogled at by his immediate family at this precise moment in time. “You look so handsome! Doesn’t he look so wonderful?” She asks, dragging Hermione over by her wrist.

His Aunt smiles at him. Their eyes are glassy, and Albus imagines they had all been crying before he came up. “You truly do, dear,” Hermione says. “I’m sure your date is going to melt when they arrive later.”

Albus rolls his eyes as he is finally allowed into the room, dropping the strawberries and lemonade bottles onto the velvet sheets covering the bed. “I told you already, Mione,” he says. “I’m not bringing a date.” He decides to not vocalise the part about wishing he _could_ bring a date.

“His plus-one is technically Scorpius,” Ginny explains, busily bounding back to Lily sat at the vanity, half her hair curled and the other pin-straight in a ponytail. “Scorp would’ve been invited anyway, obviously. But it made sense to slip him in as a platonic plus-one.”

“Ah, of course,” Hermione says, topping up her glass with the lemonade. “I did know that.”

(Albus _also_ decides to not vocalise that he wishes Scorpius wasn’t his ‘platonic’ plus-one. He would rather drop the platonic all together. But life sucks, he realises.)

Albus crosses his arms as he looks at everyone in the room. It’s separated into two parts, divided by a curtain that is currently half-drawn. The main area, where he stands, is decorated with the elegant four-poster bed, ornate cupboard and wardrobe and vanity set up next to a bay window. The back-end of the room, according to the images Albus was shown months prior, holds another vanity, the bathroom, and a few loveseats for maximum comfort. Huge, he thinks. And probably ridiculously expensive.

“Is that Jamie again?” Albus hears Victoire’s voice float in from the other part of the room. “Because if it is, tell him I won’t hesitate to hex him with my–”

Victoire appears. Her lace dressing gown cuts midway down her thigh, and little dragon-shaped slippers cover her feet. Her hair is tied in a complicated bun, little spiralling curls framing her sweet heart-shaped face. She looks beautiful, even Albus can admit that.

“Oh,” Victoire says. “Sorry, Al. I thought you were your brother coming up to be–”

“A nuisance?” Albus interrupts.

Victoire smiles. “Indeed.”

“You look lovely, Vic.” Albus says, accepting the kiss she presses to his cheek.

“Angel. That’s what you are,” Victoire says, biting on her lip to hold in a groan when her name is shouted from the opposite side of the room. “ _Minnie_ , I am coming!”

Dominique appears in a cloud of powder and traces of rosewater perfume she has sprayed all over herself. “Not fast enough, Vic!” She says, barely acknowledging Albus as she holds a bag full of hairpins and a can of hairspray. “We’re pushed for time.”

“Uh, are we?” Albus asks. He’s met with intense gazes. “I mean, like. It’s only ten.”

“And?” Dominique challenges him.

“The wedding doesn’t start until one?” Albus says.

Dominique scares incredulously at him. “Albus… it’s like you’ve never been to a wedding before!”

“Well, I–”

“The photographer will be here soon to take photos of us getting ready, and of the dresses. And of us getting into the dresses. Photos of you and the boys sorting out, photos of the building, the ceremony space. And then Bill has to come and see Victoire in the dress, we still have to exchange the pre-ceremony gifts,” his Aunt Angelina appears from nowhere. Albus hates how huge his family is. “Three hours to do all of that when we haven’t finished getting everyone ready is a lot.”

“Oh.” Albus says, utterly dumbfounded.

“Here’s guessing you and the rest of the boys are all ready?” Ginny asks. “It’s the same at every wedding. We’re all up here until the last minute while you lot just button up a shirt and mess about downstairs. Make sure your dad doesn’t touch _any_ of the finger sandwiches the catering company bring in.”

Albus swallows thickly. Best not to mention the fact the catering company has already arrived, he thinks.

“Sure, cool,” Albus smiles. “Will do.” He says, turning on his heels to leave.

“Wait! Al,” Victoire appears again, more pins in her hair and now with delicate lines of black painted over her lids. “Is there any sign of the rain easing?”

Albus chews the inside of his mouth. “Um… I’m not sure.” He lies.

Victoire frowns.

“It’s just rain, Vic.”

Victoire doesn’t look convinced. Albus leaves before everything explodes again.

⚡

Rain. Rain. Rain.

“It’s fine, Teddy,” Bill claps a hand on his son-in-law-to-be’s shoulder. “Just rain.”

Albus might tattoo the words _just rain_ on his forehead by the end of the day.

⚡

“You’re joking,” Teddy says, staring at Louis with more disbelief than anger. “You _are_ joking, Louis. Because if you aren’t, let me make it clear that I will hex you so intensely you won’t be able to move.”

Eleven. One hour until Scorpius arrives. Two hours until the ceremony. Thirty minutes until Teddy sends someone upstairs to exchange his and Victoire’s pre-ceremony gifts. Approximately two minutes before Teddy attacks his brother-in-law-to-be.

“I’m sorry, Ted. I really, _really_ am.” Louis says.

They’ve migrated to the bar, slouching on the counters and scattered around the velvet sofas and creaky wooden stools. Albus isn’t legal, but he’s considering transfiguring his napkin into a fake ID so he can order some very, very strong alcohol. Anything to alleviate the thundering headache that is brewing near his temples.

“Louis,” Teddy says, bunching his fists together as he turns away and stares, instead, to the sodden gardens. “I can’t stand your voice right now. When I turn around you will be _gone_. I don’t care whether you run, apparate, Floo, or take a Muggle bus. I _don’t care_. You will be _gone_ , and when you come back you will have the wedding bands and the gift I bought for Vic. The _only_ things you were in charge of. Is that clear?”

Nobody speaks. Everyone looks at Louis. Louis checks that the bartender isn’t looking before apparating away.

“Well,” James breaks the silence, fiddling with his cufflinks. “Bet you’re regretting not putting me in charge, huh?”

⚡

(Teddy is banned from the bar after throwing a glass at James. Albus truly thinks this wedding _might_ be the thing that tears his family apart.)

⚡

Albus stands in the reception, watching as the automatic door spins round, round, round. Tapping sounds from the counter mix with the patter of rain on the windows. He fiddles with his tie in the reflection of the glass, tilting his head side to side as he assesses his appearance.

Albus thinks he’s _okay_. Average, perhaps. He doesn’t have the charm that James radiates, the little flutter of confidence that oozes in his side smirk and the rapscallion nature that blooms in his eyes. He doesn’t have the sweetness of Lily. The rosy cheeks and the shimmering beauty in the curve of her lips and the freckles over her cheeks.

He’s rather plain. He has one dimple deeper than the other. A slit in his eyebrow from when he got into a bit of a fight with the family owl and ended up with a claw to his face that almost blinded him. No amount of gel trying to tame his soft curls or exquisitely tailored blazer could hide his simplicity.

“Al!”

Albus turns and sees Scorpius. Scorpius in a dark navy suit jacket dotted with a pattern of small red, orange and yellow flowers. Accents of green making up the leaves. Threads of gold catching in the light as he walks towards Albus. Matching suit trousers.

 _Interesting_.

Scorpius wraps him up in a hug, and Albus drinks in the apple and vanilla scent of his shampoo. A smell he is far too familiar with. A smell he sometimes he wishes he could bottle up and carry around with him at all times. Utterly normal, platonic behaviour.

“Hey, you,” Albus says as he is released. He brushes his hands down Scorpius’ jacket to smooth out the creases, tilting his tie side to side to centre it with his shirt. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” Scorpius smiles. He lifts up Albus’ arm with fingers wrapped around his wrist and rubs his thumb over the wolf-head cufflinks on his jacket. “I love these.”

Albus smiles. “Teddy’s idea, obviously,” he says. “You’ll see a lot of stars and wolves today.”

Scorpius laughs. He tips his head back and strands of his hair fall out of place. “That’s adorable,” he says. Albus resists the temptation to drag his fingers through Scorpius’ hair and fix his parting. “How are they doing, anyway?”

“Well,” Albus gestures out the window to the rain. “That’s thrown a spanner in the works.”

“Has Vic lost it yet?”

Albus’ laugh oozes sarcasm. “You could say that.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Rain. Louis forgot the wedding rings at home and everything was delayed by approximately seventeen minutes as he went home to find them. Teddy has been banned from the bar, James has already broken one of the ceremony chairs and the florists are yet to bring our boutonnières,” Albus lists off everything, gently tugging Scorpius by the arm back to the conservatory where the groom’s party have relocated again. “Don’t you just love weddings?”

Albus leads them into the fishbowl they reside in. James greets Scorpius with a fist-bump, something they’ve established as a friendly greeting over the years, and Harry appraises his suit with cautious eyes and a gentle smile. He presses a paternal kiss to the top of Scorpius’ head as they embrace, and Albus kind of wants to melt.

“Hey, Scorpius!” Teddy clasps his hand as they greet each other. The two of them, to Albus’ knowledge, aren’t terribly familiar with each other. But he supposes that several Christmases spent in the Burrow among an endless pool of Weasley-Granger-Potter-Lupin-Delacour’s (and every other name, Albus thinks) brings people together in unexplainable ways. There’s something about catching another person’s eye over the huge dining table when two gingers are arguing over who gets the mashed potato next that bonds souls for eternity. Albus guesses Teddy and Scorpius have done that.

And, after all, the two of them _are_ loosely related. Albus decides to not think about that, though.

“Teddy,” Scorpius’ voice is gentle as he pulls Teddy into his arms. “You look so nice. This venue is amazing.”

“Isn’t it?” Teddy says. He examines the room, and Albus notices how he avoids looking out at the rainy gardens behind him. “I think Vic found a right gem in whichever wedding magazine she spotted it in.”

“Am I the first guest?” Scorpius asks, self-consciously brushing down the lapels on his jacket.

Albus shakes his head. “No, no. People have been slowly arriving for, like, half an hour?” He says. “There’s a foyer just outside the ceremony room where they’re waiting to be seated. This is just for family.”

“Family?” Scorpius repeats.

Albus smiles. “Family.” He asserts.

⚡

Scorpius mingles effortlessly with anyone he comes across. Sure, there are flickers of his nervousness in the way he fiddles with his watch strap and crinkles his nose and sinks back into his shoulders, but he plays the part of friendly wedding guest impeccably.

Albus can imagine him when he was younger, just crossing the boundary into teenage years, finally being introduced to friends of the Malfoy family. Shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple and hand being shaken by the cool ones of people who, perhaps, were Death Eaters back in the day, too. His manners extend beyond anything Albus has seen before. He often gets to see glimmers of this Scorpius at Hogwarts. If they are beckoned to the Headmistresses office Scorpius will stand with his hands behind his back and nod his head, lips pulled into a barely-there, friendly smile. He slips from persona to persona depending on what is needed of him.

And from his seat on the windowsill of the conservatory, catching glimpses of Scorpius’ suit as he moves to someone new, Albus can see Master Malfoy, son of Draco and Astoria, member of a Sacred 28 family.

But then, sometimes, Scorpius will look back to him. And his eyes will soften. His hands will fall from behind his back and will instead coil together just above his navel. His eyebrows will deflate into content plateaux’s. _His_ Scorpius. Albus’ Scorpius.

(Sort of.)

⚡

“T-minus thirty minutes, boys,” Uncle George says. He clasps his hands in front of him, the sound ricocheting through Albus’ head. There is a spike of nervousness in his chest, a fluttering in his heart. Panic. Realisation. “The bridal party are coming down any minute with Bill to take some photos in the conservatory and sort everything out.”

“Fuck,” Albus hears Teddy say. He looks over and Teddy is rubbing his palms over his trousers and he looks… is that Teddy Lupin? _Nervous_? He looks pale. “This is happening, isn’t it?”

“Hey,” a gentle tug on Albus’ sleeve draws his attention away from the pre-wedding panic. “I’ll see you after the ceremony, yeah? I’m sure you’ll have to do photos… outside? If the rain stops. But you’ll come find me when you’re done?” Scorpius is asking.

Scorpius’ fingers reach up to fix Albus’ tie for him, fingertips brushing through his hair to organise a couple of the loose curls that have broken free from the useless layer of gel slathered on his head.

“Of course I will,” Albus says, staring at Scorpius even though Scorpius is focused on smoothing out the creases in Albus’ shirt and separating the petals from the leaves of his flower arrangement. “I mean… I doubt we’ll get outside in this weather, but you never know.”

Scorpius nods.

“Ok _ay_ ,” Albus whines. “You can stop faffing about with my shirt now, Scorp.”

Scorpius grins. “Sorry,” he says, not apologetic at all. “You just look so wonderful, I want to make sure you’re perfect. Partly for my own benefit but mainly because Victoire would freak if you weren’t.”

Albus tilts his head to the side. There Scorpius goes again, he thinks, with his vaguely flirtatious comments that Albus never knows how to interpret. They toe this delicate line between friends and… _something_ , and in this current moment Albus doesn’t know where the friendship stops and the _something_ begins.

“Whatever,” Albus says, swatting Scorpius off him. “ _Go_. Before someone mistakes you as a Potter-Weasley-Granger-Lupin-Delacour.”

Scorpius smiles. He gently flicks Albus’ cheek before spinning on his slick heels and walking into the ceremony room. Albus peeks around the corner and watches as Scorpius slides into his seat, sat beside Professor Longbottom and Hannah. They immediately fall into familiar conversation, and when Albus stares long enough and reads their lips he can make out words about the types of ivy that hang above them and the flowers that are woven into the altar.

Albus lovingly rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Teddy is saying, pacing back and forth. His fast strides kick up a little breeze and the rain on the roof above patters as fast as Albus imagines Teddy’s heartrate is. “I have to go in now, don’t I?”

“You do.” Harry says.

Albus watches as Harry cups a hand around the back of Teddy’s neck, smoothing his fingers over the strands of his hair and rubbing over the little brown moles that pop up occasionally over his skin. Harry looks at Teddy the same way he looks at his children. Devotion, wonder. Complete commitment. Albus thinks about those days before Harry and Ginny had their own children where they would visit Teddy at Andromeda’s house. He’s been told stories, mainly by Teddy, of weekends when Harry would come with two broomsticks and he would teach Teddy how to fly in the garden. They’d soar above the tips of the trees and Harry would sit on his broom, hair lifting in the wind and scar shimmering in the sunlight, and Teddy would love him _so_ much.

There is a bond between the two of them, his dad and Teddy, that Albus thinks is irreplaceable. Harry was a dad to him, but never tried to take over from Remus. He just made sure Teddy had someone to teach him all the things about life. Guide him through life as an orphan. Hold him when Teddy would cry about missing his parents and take him to the graveyard where they are buried so they can talk, lay flowers, mourn them together. Harry who made sure Teddy always had Christmas presents from more than just Andromeda. Harry who made sure Teddy had an owl when he went to Hogwarts. Harry who didn’t abandon him when he had children of his own.

Harry who _made_ Teddy part of his family.

And now this wedding, Victoire, everything. It’s almost a full circle. Teddy will officially be part of their family.

“I’m so proud of you,” Harry says. He presses his nose to Teddy’s temple and kisses just above his ear. Albus can see tears in his dad’s eyes. “Ah, here she is.”

Albus turns to see Andromeda walking down the foyer. She has a handkerchief pressed to her eyes, nose rosy red. Teddy embraces her the moment they reach each other, and Albus looks away as to not intrude on some intimate moment he isn’t supposed to see.

“Grandma,” Teddy says, voice muffled in the frilly sleeves of her dress. It has accents of teal in the lining and the thread: the colour of Teddy’s hair. “Is everything ready?”

Andromeda loops her arm through Teddy’s and clasps her other hand on top, holding tightly onto him as if she never wants to release him. “Everything is ready,” she says. “Victoire is on her way down.”

Teddy nods.

Harry takes his space on Teddy’s other side, hand clapped to Teddy’s shoulder. “Shall we?”

Teddy exhales. Then nods. “We shall.”

The three of them, bound by blood and love and life and history, step into the ceremony room and head out of view. And moments later the bridal party shuffle down the foyer, led by Fleur and ending with Bill and Victoire at the back. The groomsmen stand in their correct order, their designated bridesmaid lining up to their right side,

Albus grins at Roxanne and holds out his arm, teasingly prodding her in the side with his elbow.

“Albus,” Roxanne warns. “I will hex you.”

“You would never,” Albus beams. He bounces on his feet as everyone sorts themselves out around them, bridesmaids fixing their hair and groomsmen brushing their trousers and suit jackets clean of any dust. “You look lovely.” He smiles.

Roxanne looks down at herself; Victoire had made all the dresses by hand, for the bridesmaids and her mother and herself and, even, for Andromeda. She also made the ties for the groom’s party. Every dress has been made with the same light, teal fabric, built up in layers to create an airy and almost cloud-like look when the girls move. But every dress has been tailored differently depending on the preferences of each maid. ( _“Everyone likes their dresses shaped differently,”_ Victoire had said when Albus walked into her studio at Shell Cottage one day. _“Lucy hates long dresses, for example. And Minnie thinks she has chubby legs, which she_ doesn’t _, so I’m tailoring them to make the girls feel as beautiful as possible. They’re all radiant, and I want them to feel that way_. _”_ )

Roxanne’s dress has a slit at one leg, her olive skin contrasting beautifully to the shade of the material. A glittery belt pulls the dress tight at her waist, off-the-shoulder sleeves shimmering under the lights. She is radiant, all long legs and dark hair pulled back into a complicated braid, flashes of her collarbone tattoos peeking out the top of her dress. The Johnson genes are strong in her.

“Thank you, sweetums,” Roxanne says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Is your boyfriend here?”

Albus stares at her. “My… boyfriend?”

“Malfoy.”

Albus rolls his eyes. “Not my boyfriend,” he says. “And his name is Scorpius.”

“He called me Weasley. So I shall call him Malfoy.”

“Roxy,” Albus whines. “He called you Weasley once.”

Roxanne shrugs. “One too many times.”

Albus goes to retaliate but is shushed by Fleur at the front of the line.

“Zee music ‘as started.” Fleur says. She delicately tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiles at everyone in the line, eyes lingering at the back on her daughter and husband, before she returns to her space at the front.

Teddy couldn’t pick a best man. Something about there being too many significant men in his life that choosing one felt wrong. So he dished out the best man duties to everyone who wanted any; James organised the stag party (a disastrous choice), Louis is in charge of the rings (another disastrous choice), Harry had helped pick out suits and colours.

James and Louis stand at the front on either side of Fleur. Their arms loop, they smile at each other, and then they walk into the room. The endless line of bridesmaids and groomsmen begin to slink into the room, too. Ginny and Charlie lead the way, followed by Percy and Audrey, George and Angelina. Cousin matched with cousin. Aunt matched with Uncle.

Albus and Roxanne hold each with a ferociously tight grip as they walk down the aisle. Above them the lights shimmer. Some of the lights beam brighter, and Albus can faintly make out the Lupus constellation up there. He swallows thickly and looks to the side instead, smiling as he catches Scorpius’ eye.

The aisle is endless; person after person after person staring as he walks. He thinks long and hard about every step he takes. He tries to not think about his appearance.

They get to the front of the room and Albus kisses Roxy’s cheek, gently squeezing her hand as they part and stand on either side of the altar. Albus bumps fists with Teddy as he stands behind him, and it is at that moment Albus sees the photos on the first two seats on the front row.

Two frames. Ornate and gold, embellished with floral details and propped up against the back of the chairs. One of Remus. One of Tonks. Remus smiling shyly at the camera, eyes looking away in bashful resistance to be photographed any longer. His scars paint his face, his eyes are dark underneath. But there is still light to his face. A quiver of his lip; a tiny, _tiny_ twinkle in his eye. Tonks, on the other hand, beams. Her boisterous energy exudes from the photograph. She beams and her smile is all teeth and a stuck out tongue and dimples that dig deep into her cheeks. Her hair shines like a thousand amethysts.

Albus looks from the photos to Teddy and then back again. He really is the perfect Lupin-Tonks combination.

“Please stand for the bride.” The officiant says.

Everyone stands and from the back of the room, tucked behind the final row of seats, a piano beings to play a sweet, gentle song. The chords match the daintiness of Victoire as she steps into the ceremony room, arm wound around Bill’s and eyes already glassy. She steps slowly along the aisle, eyes glued to Teddy’s, taking each step as gently as possible. She looks desperate to imprint the image of the room in her mind, desperate to note all the details and the decorations and each delicate light that catches the beading on her dress as she moves.

Albus is enamoured with the dress. A-line, the bottom hem scalloped and the entire thing made mainly of lace she had sourced from the attic of the Burrow. Molly had found metres and metres of the stuff, sweet Italian lace with floral patterns and little spirals and the perfect spaces to sew on extra beads if she wanted. Victoire had held the material in her arms, tears in her eyes, and thanked her grandmother profusely for it all. And now, from the front row, Molly looks similarly moved by the final product.

Albus sneaks a glance at Scorpius and ignores the way his heart hammers in his chest.

Victoire finally makes it to the altar, and Bill holds her hands tightly until they turn white. She stares up at him, her father and first friend, and smiles. A smile that encompasses years of thanks for raising her, loving her. Picking her up when she fell off her broomstick and for sticking little sorting hat patterned plasters over her cuts. Braiding her hair with a new style she found in a _Witch Weekly_ spread. Rubbing her back when she would come home inconsolable thinking she had ruined things with Teddy.

“Thank you,” Victoire says. “I love you.”

Bill can’t say anything back without crying, so he just kisses her cheek and lets her go.

Albus watches as Teddy and Victoire hold hands. Their fingertips press together and they familiarise themselves with how each other’s palms feel. Their fingers slot together, their wrist bones touch. They look at each other and the tone of the room shifts. Teddy is like the moon, Albus thinks. He lights up when Victoire is around. Victoire brightens him more than he thought possible.

They look at each other like they matter _so_ much. Albus looks back to Scorpius.

Scorpius matters. _So_ much.

Albus swallows thickly and looks away just as Scorpius looks at him. An unmet gaze, that’s where it can all begin.

⚡

Teddy reads out a poem for his vows. He rambles on about not being good with words (“never have been,” he laughs. “Never will be.”) and mentions coming across this poem in a book that was once owned by his father. Teddy found it in a box that sagged at the edges and had _MOONY_ scrawled across the front in shaky handwriting. The book had no front cover, the pages were coffee-stained and torn, but there was a poem that had been dog-eared and remained dog-eared after all those years.

“And that,” Teddy finishes his explanation. “Is the first poem I ever understood. Because when I read it, I thought of my Vic. And I thought, _wow_ , this is what love is.”

Victoire smiles.

"I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet. I want no world, for beautiful you are my world, my true. And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” Teddy’s voice wavers as he reads off his tiny sheet of paper. “Here is the deepest secret nobody knows, here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.”

There is a beat. Albus recognises the poem. Perhaps he’s heard it? Perhaps it is one of the poems Scorpius has memorised from years perusing libraries. One of the sequences he can sing, that can lull Albus to sleep when he’s suffering from nightmares.

Perhaps, Albus thinks, he should stop looking at his best friend and thinking about him after every word that is spoken during this wedding.

⚡

Victoire talks about how Teddy showed her how to live. How he showed her love. How he took her by the hand and waltzed her through the intricacies of breathing. “I don’t think,” she says. “I ever opened my eyes properly until I met you.”

Her vows are laced with metaphors that ring in Albus’ ears like a Shakespearean sonnet. But he knows they are her authentic words.

He looks at Scorpius again.

“Every day with you is like running out into a storm and dancing in the rain. It is watching the tide turn and breathing in the salt as the waves rise higher and higher, without fear. It is turning off the light and knowing where to go by sense alone,” Victoire concludes. “So, honey, I can’t wait to spend every rainy day, sunny day – happy day and sad day – with you.”

Scorpius looks at him. Something passes between them. Scorpius’ lips quiver into a smile. Albus’ eyes soften at the sight,

The rain continues to fall. For the first time, Albus truly believes that it is _just rain_.

⚡

They don’t get outside for photos after the ceremony ends. They stand, instead, with the conservatory doors swung open, the wildlife sprinting behind them and the gentle _pitter-patter_ drumming alongside the clicking of the camera. The photographer says she thinks from the right angle, and with meticulous cropping, she will be able to get photos that make them look like they’re outside.

Bride and groom. Bride. Groom. Whole wedding party. Bridal party. Groom’s party. Family of the bride. Family of the groom. So many variations Albus feels like he’s constantly climbing on and off a carousel during the photography session.

“You know what,” Victoire says just as the photos come to an end. “I want to go outside.”

“But zee _rain_!” Fleur gasps.

Victoire shrugs. “I don’t care. This is my wedding,” she says. “And I want a photo with my _husband_ in that pretty gazebo I saw in the magazine.”

Teddy beams. “I love you.”

People scatter to find umbrellas, two hotel clerks holding an umbrella each over the photographer to keep all of her cameras safe from the rain. Albus watches adoringly as they get to the gazebo and take photos there.

A tap to his shoulder draws him away and makes him jump, but apples and vanilla calm him back down.

“That was a sweet ceremony,” Scorpius says, arm resting on Albus’ shoulder. “They’re really into each other, huh?”

Albus smiles. “Really,” he says. “They’ve been together… years. Since before we started Hogwarts.”

“It must be nice for Teddy to officially be part of the family.”

Albus nods. “Oh, yeah,” he turns to look at Scorpius, carefully as to not accidentally brush Scorpius’ arm off his shoulder. “Like, he was obviously always part of the family. But I think it was like my dad… when he married my mum he was _finally_ part of the Weasley family.”

Scorpius smiles. “That’s sweet.”

 _Click_.

They both turn and look at the photographer behind them.

“Sorry,” the Muggle says, cheeks flushing after being caught. “You two just looked endearing.”

“Oh, no,” Scorpius says. “Don’t apologise. I’m sure it’ll be a really beautiful photo.”

 _With you in it_ , Albus wants to say, _there’s no doubt it’ll be beautiful_.

“Enjoy the rest of the wedding.” Is what he says instead.

“I will.” The Muggle smiles, then lugs her camera towards the foyer where the rest of the guests are mingling. There is champagne fizzing in the air and rosewater hovering above them like a cloud of sweetness. Albus bumps his hand against Scorpius’. Scorpius bumps his back.

⚡

Albus watches as people drag their fingers along the seating charts to find their names. Watches as they walk into the dining room and sit at their table, fingers brushing over the lace covers and eyes lighting as they take in the flowers and lights and model planets that make up the centrepiece.

“Lorcan, Lysander, Luna, Rolf,” Scorpius reads off from the list. “Neville, Hannah and Scorpius.”

“Well,” Albus says. “It was either put you with the Hogwarts alumni or with the thousands of tiny French children.”

Scorpius laughs. “Makes sense.”

“You’ll be okay, right?”

Scorpius tilts his head to the side. “Come again?”

“By yourself, on the table.”

“You mean,” Scorpius says. “Without you?”

Albus stares at him and tries desperately to read his expression. The contours of his cheeks and the gentle quivering of his lips as he fights a smile. “Yeah,” Albus admits. “Without me.”

Scorpius sighs over-dramatically. “Though it breaks my fragile, little heart to be apart from you for more than twenty minutes,” he says. “I _suppose_ I will–”

Albus swats him with a stray tea towel he finds from a food cart behind him. “ _Hey_ ,” he says. “It was only a question!”

“And I gave you an answer.”

“No,” Albus retorts. “You were being–”

Albus is cut off as Scorpius clamps a hand over his mouth. His skin smells of the fancy shell-shaped coconut soap bars the hotel stocks in the restrooms. “I’ll be fine,” Scorpius says. “Suppose it’s my fault for only befriending Potter-Weasley-Granger-Lupin-Delacour’s.”

Albus smiles. “I’ll find you at the reception.”

Scorpius finally takes away his hand. “I know.”

⚡

Albus tries not to cry at the speeches. He _really_ does. But then his dad, delivering a ‘godfather of the groom’ speech, goes and says “I count myself lucky to have three sons,” (he looks poignantly to Teddy, James, and Albus), “who make me proud every single day they wake up and face the world.”

And Bill has the audacity to say “Teddy knows he’s always been a part of this family, he’s been my boy since the day he stepped into the Cottage with flowers for Fleur that matched the colour of his hair. And he will be my boy for the rest of my life.”

Albus tries not to cry. But it doesn’t work out.

⚡

After the meal, as the guests for the reception arrive, the room is transformed into a cluster of circular tables, walls lined with buffet food, drinks, paper plates and disposable cameras. _The Rolling Gnomes_ , Albus’ favourite wizarding band, walk in and set up their stage. A dancefloor is created, a glitter ball hangs above them, as do the hanging fairy lights that have been moved from the ceremony room to the reception room. There is a bar. There is alcohol. Albus thinks this is where everything is going to kick off.

“Albus Potter,” an old witch comes up to him and gently brushes his cheek. He doesn’t recognise her, but he knows she recognises him. And he’s worked on his whole hating-his-famous-last-name act, so he only flinches a little bit when she touches his skin. “It’s been years.”

“Oh, of course,” Albus says, speaking in his well-trained friendly voice. “It’s so wonderful to see you too…”

“Arabella!” Ginny appears by Albus’ side, one of her hands in his hair and the other holding Arabella’s. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Arabella – the name still not ringing a bell – smiles at Ginny. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says. “Seeing all this… all this love and joy after so much darkness. It’s uplifting.”

“Indeed,” Ginny says. A strand of perfectly twisted hair from her bun has fallen loose, framing her cheeks and matching the colour of her freckles. “Love is born from peace, after all. Do you need help finding a seat?”

“Oh, no. No, I’m quite alright,” Arabella says. Her fingers are frail as they touch Albus’ elbow. “I just came over to say hello to Albus. He’s so grown now, isn’t he?”

Ginny beams. She kisses Albus’ cheek and pampers him with fingers through hair and hands fiddling with his tie. “My littlest boy, not so little anymore,” she says. “He’ll be going into his last year of Hogwarts in September.”

“Oh, my,” Arabella gasps. “Time flies.”

“Tell me about it.” Albus adds. Arabella laughs. Ginny laughs. He thinks he’s playing the part of groomsman very well.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Arabella says, leaning in to kiss Ginny and Albus’ cheeks. “I must find Bill and Fleur and congratulate them.”

Ginny waves, and the two of them watch as sweet little Arabella Figg shuffles away, her flats scratching on the carpeted floor and her small bag hitting every chair she passes. “You have no idea who she is, do you?”

Albus shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Mrs. Figg,” his mum explains, guiding him with a hand on his back towards the Potter family table. Or, well, a few Potters and a plethora of other relatives. There technically isn’t a seating plan, but most groups have gravitated towards a table to claim for the night. “She was a neighbour of your dad’s back with the Dursleys. Used to be a member of the Order. She’s a Squib, but she stayed in contact with everyone. She’s a common figure at these sort of events.”

“Right.” Albus says.

Ginny looks at him. “You don’t care, do you?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Not really?” He says. “Sorry.”

“Teenagers…” Ginny mutters, gently flicking Albus’ cheek.

“ _Hey_ ,” Albus says. He goes to argue more, but his eyes catch sight of a familiar head of blonde hair and he suddenly doesn’t want to waste another second being his usual stubborn self. “You’re forgiven. For now, anyway.”

Ginny looks over her shoulder, and stares at Albus with an unnerving soft expression when she turns back. “Of course,” she says. “Don’t drink too much. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?” Albus asks.

Ginny shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Immature teenage things.”

“Whatever,” Albus laughs. He rises to his tiptoes and kisses his mum’s cheek. “Love you.”

“I love you.”

Albus sneakily flicks her nose as he walks away, leaving behind the distant ringing of Ginny’s laughter as he heads towards Scorpius instead. Scorpius and his loosened tie, flicked back blazer coattails, hands in his pockets. The gel holding his hair down weakening so sweet, fluffy strands stick up in endearing angles. Smelling so richly of apple and vanilla and coconut.

“Found you.” Albus says.

Scorpius looks at him and reaches over to tuck another stray curl away, to fix the mess his mum had made moments before. “Not fair,” he says. “I didn’t have time to find a hiding place.”

Albus wants to roll his eyes but he can’t bring himself to be snarky. Can’t bring himself to do anything other than smile and step towards Scorpius and hug him. Scorpius doesn’t question the move – Albus loves how they can do _this_ without confusion anymore – and, instead, wraps his arms around Albus’ shoulders.

“How was the food?” Albus asks, voice muffled from where his face is pressed against Scorpius’ chest.

“I went for the vegetarian option,” Scorpius says. “Perhaps I could’ve had the duck if I hadn’t seen a little duckling in the garden earlier. The vegetable risotto was wonderful, though.”

“I told them duck was a bad choice,” Albus continues. “Weird choice.”

“The speeches were the best part, though,” Scorpius keeps talking and holding Albus even as Albus turns in his arms and looks up a little to hear him better. “I mean… ‘Thank you for loving my daughter so wholly and eternally that she feels safe to shamelessly live her true life’. Is that not the most romantic thing ever?”

Albus thinks.

Thinks about how, when Scorpius is around, he feels like he could do anything. How he isn’t ashamed to geek out over antique Wizards Chess pieces. Feels unjudged, very much supported, as he scoops up the ash from the dying fire in the Slytherin dorm room and turns it into paint. Feels confident enough in himself and his skills to allow Scorpius to sit behind him, head on Albus’ shoulder, as he paints on the parchment he transfigured into a canvas.

Albus clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty romantic.”

⚡

Albus loves _The Rolling Gnomes_. It’s impossible not to, in his opinion. The lead singer – Casper Copperwell – with his lilac hair tied up with a bandana and his tattoos and his polo shirt tucked into tapered, ankle-length trousers. With his dress shoes, no socks, railway track guitar strap scars on his shoulders.

Once, in the midst of a ‘personal’ crisis, Albus had made a list of all the people he thought were really pretty. He’d seen Lily do the same thing in one of her tweeny magazines, and that seemed like a productive activity for her.

So he took one of her glittery gold pens and a tore out a poster of ‘Young Gilderoy Lockhart’ and started scribbling names on the back. Gonçalo Flores. Oliver Wood (not that he would ever admit that to anyone _ever_ in his life). Karl Jenkins. Casper Copperwell.

Once he’d finished, he stared at the list for a long time. He even pinned it up on his noticeboard in his room and would read the names out, in his mind and out loud. He would even say the names to the family owl. Overall, it hadn’t been a productive activity for Albus. Hadn’t cleared up anything. Hadn’t resolved his ‘personal crisis’ at all. It did, in fact, only cause more problems and spur more questions in his mind. Two particular questions that drove him a little mad.

One. Why are all these people guys?

Two. Why does he want to write Scorpius’ name down?

So perhaps Albus has a crush on Casper Copperwell. And perhaps his beautiful lilac hair makes him go all weak at the knees. And _perhaps_ the main reason he likes _The Rolling Gnomes_ so much is because when he hears their music he gets to picture him. But those are details that matter to nobody except for him. And, right now, dancing under a twirling glitter ball and flickering fairy lights with Scorpius opposite him and a glass of lemonade in his hands, Albus doesn’t care for details.

In fact, all he really cares about is how brilliant Scorpius’ shirt is now he’s discarded his blazer and Albus can finally see his skin through the slightly sheer fabric. The buttons on the cuffs are feather-shaped, undone so Scorpius can push the material up to bunch around his elbows. So his skin can breathe. Albus doesn’t know where his tie has gone, but it’s not around his neck. And the top button is undone, too.

Heavenly.

Scorpius in front of him. Casper Copperwell a few feet away from him, his velvety voice booming through the speakers as he sings “ _you took my soul, wiped it clean, our love was made for movie screens_.” Albus feels incandescent under the lights, bodies bumping into his as everyone crowds onto the dancefloor and celebrates living as if the world will end tonight.

There is bass. There is laughter. There is music. And there is rain hammering on the roof.

“You look really nice.” Scorpius shouts over the music. He leans into Albus, nose brushing his cheek, as he speaks.

“Do I?” Albus asks. Stupid thing to say. He wishes he could take it back.

But Scorpius doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease him or look at him oddly like other people do when he says something a bit stupid. He _smiles_. He smiles the soft smile – the one where the corner of his lip creeps up slightly and the centre of his mouth parts so his teeth can just about be seen – that he saves for Albus. Well, perhaps it isn’t saved just for Albus, but he’s never seen Scorpius direct it to anyone else.

“You do,” Scorpius repeats, lips ghosting over Albus’ jaw. “You always do.”

Rain. Music. Laughter.

 _Scorpius_.

⚡

 _The Rolling Gnomes_ take a break from their set. People slink away from the dancefloor to fill up on drinks and pick at the buffet food that lines the walls. Albus has his hand wrapped around Scorpius’ wrist and they tumble together into a seat at the Potter table. Their legs are tangled and Scorpius sits half-on Albus’ lap. They stick two straws into a glass of some strawberry and lime flavoured alcohol the bartender gave them and sip at it together.

“Smile, you two.”

Albus and Scorpius look up at Roxanne, disposable camera in her hands. Albus throws up a peace sign and Scorpius sticks out his tongue. They are both perhaps, maybe, definitely teetering on the line between sober and tipsy. Albus blames the atmosphere.

“Cute,” Roxanne says, the flash of the camera all but blinding them as she takes the photo. “Isn’t this reception wonderful?”

“ _So_ wonderful,” Scorpius says. He grapples over the table to take the camera from Roxanne, spinning the dial to queue it up for a photograph of her. “The band, the drinks, the people. It’s all so wonderful. Smile!”

Roxanne beams. Her red lips and loose hair. Her legs crossed and her painted nails resting on her cheek.

“So gorgeous, Roxy.” Albus adds.

Roxanne blows him a kiss. “My favourite cousin.”

“One of your other cousins is totally flirting with the bartender,” Scorpius observes, straw lolling about on his tongue. “Did you guys notice that yet?”

Albus and Roxanne crane their necks to look at the bar. The scene: Dominique, finger curling around a strand of her hair, mouth wide mid-laugh, eyelashes fluttering. Bartender – _Hi, I’m Lucas!_ his badge reads – polishing a glass with flushed cheeks and eyes that never leave Dominique.

“Typical Minnie,” Albus says. “I’d say she’s just trying to get a refill, but she’s definitely trying to get something more.”

“Did she break up with her boyfriend?” Scorpius asks. They watch as _Hi, I’m Lucas!_ scrambles with a bottle of liquor and an ice scoop.

“Which one?” Roxanne asks. “She broke up with Damien, the _Prophet_ writer, ages ago. Then there was that Quidditch player… what was her name?”

“Florence.” Albus supplies.

“ _Florence_! That was it,” Roxanne says. “But she went back to America, or something. Minnie brought someone called Ethan back once, but I don’t think they were ever officially together.”

“Those Weasley-Delacours,” Scorpius laughs. “Irresistible.”

“Aren’t they just,” Roxanne grins. “Oh, look! First dance!”

In the centre of the dance floor stand Teddy and Victoire, fingers twined, eyes on the band as _The Rolling Gnomes_ step back up to the stage. Casper Copperwell drags his calloused fingers through his hair and looks out at the crowd, taking in every single person before settling on the couple.

“While we were preparing for this set we asked Ted and Vic if they had a specific song that they wanted for the first dance. Anyone who knows them will know they listen to a lot of music. So, as you can imagine, getting an answer out of them was like squeezing blood from a stone,” Casper Copperwell says, and everyone laughs. Albus tipsily takes Scorpius’ hand in his and weaves them between the crowd to stand at the edge of the dance floor. “In the end they said that me and the boys could pick one. And it took a while, but I remembered that when Teddy proposed, at one of our gigs, we had just finished this song. So, Teddy. Victoire. This is for you.”

“Tell me, tell me that you want me,” the music starts, and Casper begins to sing. The guitar is fragile, the strings shivering and shimmering under the light as they are strummed. The drums boom in the background, barely there. Just tickling the surface. “And I’ll be yours completely, for better or for worse.”

Albus leans against Scorpius’ shoulder. He thinks that after years spent in this exact position, or variations of it (Albus dozing against his side as they sit in the common room while Scorpius reads, Albus leaning and falling asleep during History of Magic), there is a dip along Scorpius’ arm perfectly moulded for Albus’ cheek.

The music fills him. It lifts him and it shakes him and as he stares at his cousins, lit by a halo of light blue and trickles of gold, it screams at him. Albus watches as Teddy mouths some of the words directly to Victoire, his lips barely opening but so clearly saying _‘cause I knew, the first day that I met you, I was never gonna let you, let you slip away._

There is something that burns between them. Something so private and perfect and bright. Like connecting wires in a broken circuit to have the bulb illuminate once more. Two live, wild people who meet and spiral through life as intended.

Albus looks at the way Victoire rests her head on Teddy’s shoulder, the way her fingers on his back find the dimples by his shoulder blades and start to smooth over the bones. The way Teddy’s eyelashes cast spindly shadows on his cheeks as he looks down at Victoire and cradles her close to him. Neither of them depends on each other, that’s something Albus knows. They could live without each other, they just don’t want to.

_You’re giving up your kingdom for Albus._

His mind casts those old words from fourth year back into his mind. Words he didn’t hear himself. But words Scorpius recited to him. Words Albus wrote on the back of paper. Wrote on his skin. Wrote on the mirror after a shower when the heat had steamed it up. Words that confirm Scorpius could live without Albus, too, but he just doesn’t want to.

Midway through the song when Albus comes back to Earth and blinks away his daydreams the floor floods with other couples joining in. Teddy and Victoire have beckoned people to join them, dancing in a much looser fashion now photographs have been taken and they’ve had their moment. Opposite him, Albus he sees his parents glide among the thicket of guests, Harry spinning Ginny under his arm before tugging her close under the milky blue lights. Fleur and Bill lull gently side to side, two boats bobbing happily on a calm shore, eyes mainly watching their sweet child on her sweet day. Every combination of Uncle and Aunt make their way to the floor, other single guests bop along by themselves or simply hold their glasses up as a marker of respect to the Lupin-Delacour-Weasley union.

(Albus doesn’t know what surname they have officially decided on, but he thinks the pompousness of Lupin-Delacour-Weasley should be a very firm contender.)

Out of the corner of his eye Albus notices how even Dominique and James have partners to dance with, Minnie with her arms wrapped around the neck of the _Hi, I’m Lucas!_ and Jamie allowing his fingers to dive south of the equator of a girl Albus vaguely recognises from Hogwarts. But in his slightly tipsy state, Albus thinks everyone would look vaguely familiar, so it’s highly possible he has no idea who she is.

_You make my whole world feel so right when it’s wrong._

Albus wants to do something possibly disastrous. But, also, possibly _wonderful_. He weighs up his choices in his mind as he sips from his drink, his entire left side heating up from the warmth that passes from Scorpius’ body into his own.

One. He could stay standing on the outskirts, looking at everyone else, wishing he could be in there.

Two. He could move further down the line to get a better look at Casper and his guitar and his pretty lilac hair.

Three. He could move around to the bar and get another one of those strawberry and lime drinks and forget all about this.

Four. He could get his head out of the clouds and ask Scorpius to dance.

“Dance with me?” Albus asks in a moment of sparkling confidence. He detaches himself from Scorpius and steps over the boundary from carpet to wooden dance floor, waving his fingertips in the direction of Scorpius’ hand as he holds out his arm.

Scorpius looks at him clearly. _Clearly._ Looks at him the way a person looks at the world when they put on their glasses for the first time and everything clears. Everything makes sense. The smudges become distinct objects and the colours are vibrant. Scorpius looks at Albus like it all makes sense.

“I’d love to.” Scorpius says, and when their fingertips touch and Albus folds their hands together it all feels different. They’ve touched before. Held hands before. Their knuckles have bumped as they walk and Scorpius often throws out a hand to stop Albus from slipping and falling down a staircase in Hogwarts as they start to move. But the deliberate, knowing touch feels different. Feels right, even if it should be wrong.

They blend into the cluster of dressed up dancers and find their footing in this odd sphere they find themselves within. They stand opposite each other, Albus and Scorpius, Scorpius and Albus, and for a moment Albus thinks he’s made a mistake. But then Scorpius lazily drapes his arms around Albus’ shoulders, his hands meeting behind his neck to play with his curls, and Albus knows he made the perfect choice. Somehow his arms end up encircling Scorpius’ waist, brushing over the seams of his shirt and the loops on his trousers. The little details he’s been staring at all day but daring himself to not touch. All of it.

“Suppose I should thank Victoire and Teddy for having their whole wedding party be family members.” Scorpius says, leaning so close to Albus that his breath trickles down his jawline and lights something deep in Albus’ soul.

Albus looks at Scorpius out the corner of his eye. He’s moderately terrified of looking him in the eye right now. “Why is that?”

“Well, you know,” Scorpius says, spinning Albus under his arm to rip a giggle from Albus’ throat. “Tradition is usually that members of bridal and groom’s party respectively end up dancing together, spending the evening together.”

“You think I’d spend the evening with someone else if it weren’t just my relatives in the matching dresses and fancy suits?” Albus asks.

Scorpius shrugs. Albus feels the material of his shirt tense against his shoulder as he moves. “Maybe.”

“You’re my plus one, Scorpius.” Albus says.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Really?” Albus asks. He finally dares to look at Scorpius. “Because it means quite a lot to me.”

Scorpius stares at him. Albus stares back. The fairy lights cast a gentle blue glow over Scorpius’ face. His cheekbones contour with navy shadows and his hair is painted with chalky streaks of aquamarine. He looks stunningly similar to fourth year Scorpius who ascended from the lake that fateful day and almost drowned Albus with joy.

“That’s a relief.” Scorpius murmurs. Albus strains to hear him.

“It is?”

“Yes,” Scorpius nods. “It is.”

_You make my heart feel like its summer, when the rain is pouring down._

Casper sings in the background. The incessant summer rain pounds the roof above them. People talk and laugh and giggle. Albus just stares at Scorpius.

_You make my whole world feel so right when it’s wrong, that’s how I know you are the one._

Albus looks over his shoulder; everyone is transfixed on the eyes of their partner or the glittery champagne filling their glasses.

“Fancy doing something that will definitely get us in trouble but will definitely be worth it?” Albus asks.

“How much trouble?”

Albus assesses himself. The wolf-head cufflinks. The flowers. The tie Victoire made. “Enough to make you feel like you’re indestructible but not enough that we’ll get disowned by our respective families.”

Scorpius grins. “I’m in.”

⚡

Albus drags his tie over his head, his curls fluffing up and scattering all about from the disruption, and throws it onto the floor of the conservatory. He pulls off his cufflinks and drops them on top. The flowers, too. He rolls up his sleeves and pushes open the French doors.

The sky is an inky black. The stars are distant foggy blurs, covered in the smoky blanket of cloud that hasn’t let up all day. The floor is damp, the air is damper, and Albus soaks as he steps outside. Little splashes of water stain his trousers and his ankles as he sprints down the stone stairs into the garden. He should freeze, should shiver under the pelting icy raindrops, but the heat on his cheeks keeps him warm. Albus is insulated by a layer of adrenaline. A layer that thickens as he watches Scorpius traipse down the stairs after him.

Their suits are expensive. Their shoes even more so. Albus knows he will be hexed by varying Potter-Weasley-Granger-Lupin-Delacour’s in the morning. But right now, under the foggy moon and washed in a weak bucket of light from inside the Hotel and Spa, all Albus is worried about is grabbing a handful of Scorpius’ shirt and doing something he definitely won’t regret.

Scorpius skids up to him, the soles of his shoes inevitably scratching as he transfers from slabs of stone to the soggy grass. They are stuck in the middle of two soundscapes: to their one side the distant music from the reception room trickles out the open doors, the drums and the guitars and a delicate bass that thumps the floor and shakes the chandeliers. To their other side: the wilderness. The gentle movements of the stream and the scuffles of squirrels and owls as they clamber through the branches. The wind as it sifts over every surface and slithers into every nook and cranny. The rain. Rain, rain, rain.

 _Just rain_.

Scorpius is right in front of Albus. Came with Albus. Followed Albus.

“Can I kiss you?”

Albus stares at Scorpius. “Wait,” he blurts out. “What?”

Scorpius stares at him. Half his face is hidden to the night time shadows, the other half caressed in a gentle golden glow. “Can… I kiss you?”

“That was going to be my question.” Albus says.

And _why_? Why, he asks himself? Why is he choosing this specific moment to be a petulant teenager who is so stubborn he has to vocalise every childish thought that summons in his tiny, stupid brain? Albus has to resist the urge to walk over to an oak tree and bang his head against the trunk a few times. Perhaps that would drill some sense into him.

“Well. Is that a problem?” Scorpius asks. “I mean, having the same question surely means we’re on the same page.”

“No… I guess it isn’t a problem,” Albus murmurs. He speaks almost as fast as the rain falls. “Say it again.”

The corner of Scorpius’ mouth quivers into a smile. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

And he does. Scorpius’ lips are sweet and sticky and taste of strawberry and sugar and mint and Albus just wants to drown in this unusual concoction of flavours. Albus lets himself grab a handful of Scorpius’ shirt. Allows himself to step onto the toes of Scorpius’ shoes to give himself an inch or so more height. There are hands cradling his lower back. There is rain trickling down his cheeks.

Albus is euphoric.

“You make me feel so right,” Albus murmurs against him. “Even when I feel wrong.”

“Like the song?”

“Like the song.” Albus clarifies.

Albus kisses him again. And again. And again. And again.

The rain falls. The stars try their best to penetrate through the cloud. The moon spies on them through a slit in the fogginess. There is music behind them and a pitch black abyss in front of them, but neither of them cares. Albus can press his thumbs into Scorpius’ cheeks. Can let his hands drift over his collarbones and down his arms and over the bumpy landscape of his hands. Then, to top it all off, Scorpius can do it _back_.

And perhaps, Albus thinks, weddings aren’t the worst thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> chat w/ me on tumblr @dustyspines!


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